A heartwarming paean to, um, the fact that loads and loads of people are getting divorced nowadays, Oh, The Divorces! really is incongruously gorgeous, starting with just Thorn's ever-doleful voice and piano, and then dovetailing into a full-strength lachyrymal assault of weeping strings. Probably best not to play it if you actually are recently divorced, however, especially if you have a running exhaust pipe and length of hose within easy reach.

Whoever got to play rhythm guitar on this latest effort from Melbourne rock types the Temper Trap certainly got to enjoy a nice quiet day in the office, given that his task seems to be simply to hit the same chord over and over again, while his chums attempt to essay some kind of Muse-esque stadium-pleasing big noise. OK, it should come with its own flashing "LISTEN TO HOW BIG AND IMPRESSIVE WE ARE" sign, but it builds up an impressive head of steam and is no worse than a squillion other bands. There, a glowing reference from The Guide man!

Haughty, vaguely absurd electro-pop in the style of Goldfrapp's Black Cherry, that overdoes it slightly in the "ooh, now let's see what this button does" manner of its chuck-everything-into-the-mix arrangement, but still sounds very pleasingly gaspy and saucy and 1980s. Three remixes add some modernist flesh to the bones, all of them to the original version's benefit, especially the jarring, hobnail-booted TallZombi reworking. Agreeable.

Being in any way disparaging about Crotchety National Treasure Mark E Smith™ is sort of like the critical equivalent of laughing hysterically while you hurl a beaker full of urine into the face of a mafia don, but this sounds rather like a man with an over-indulgent, captive audience ready to hang on his every utterance. Thoroughly underwhelming, it sounds for all the world like a drunk man shouting abuse at pigeons over a workaday indie grind. "I'm from Bury/As in Bur-rie/I'm French", he says, helpfully.

This is on Pharrell Williams's label and has Estelle trilling prettily in the chorus, and so will almost certainly sell by the oil-tankerload without our patronage, but it would be remiss not to note how awful and slimy it is – it seems to be using rollercoasters as a metaphor for sex, for gawd's sake! – and it doesn't help that Mr Thicke himself looks like a particularly smug, self-loving cocktail mixer. Well, he's just dropped his shaker behind his back and everybody in the bar saw it. See, we can do bad metaphors, too.